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Shane Kroetsch

Dark and Introspective Fiction

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Archives for October 2021

Stories From the Dark, Ep. 6 – The Devil

October 28, 2021 by Shane Leave a Comment

Happy almost Halloween!

Last year I had an idea. Wouldn’t it be fun to write a story about the Devil in exactly 666 words? Turns out it was. Once it was finished though, I didn’t know what to do with it. Initially, I thought I would search out an open call to submit it to. After not being able to find a suitable opportunity, I got it ready to post as a story. Why that didn’t happen, I’m not sure. That brings us to today. To celebrate this spookiest of months, I decided to post two Stories from the Dark, and what better opportunity could there be than to share with all of you just before Halloween? I hope you enjoy it.

What comes next? November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). While I’m not participating in an official way, I am joining a group of my writer friends in an attempt to create some good writing habits, and while maybe I won’t get 50,000 words down, I still want to finish my current work in progress and take a big chunk out of the next. Stay tuned!

Until next time, I hope you are well.

Shane

Filed Under: Audio Story, Story Tagged With: Audio Story, Flash Fiction, short story

Stories from the Dark, Ep. 5 – Truth or Dare

October 15, 2021 by Shane Leave a Comment

Oh hi.

I have a short one for you today. While I normally write dark and weird, this one even surprised me. Maybe the spooky month is having an effect on me? Have a listen, I hope you enjoy.

Keep an eye out for my second Stories from the Dark post in honour of Halloween coming in a couple weeks! Until then, I hope you are well.

Shane

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Photo by David Tomaseti on Unsplash

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Filed Under: Audio Story, Story Tagged With: Audio Story, Flash Fiction, Short Fiction

Memory

October 7, 2021 by Shane Leave a Comment

I took the phone off the hook. Not that anyone knows where we are. Past the flickering neon vacancy sign, the stars begin to fade with the light of a new day. I don’t remember the last time I saw the sunrise. Part of me hopes it won’t ever happen again.

When we met, love came faster than I knew it could. By the time I heard the first pull of the whistle, that train was already on top of me. All we had was each other, didn’t need anything else. I had her name tattooed next to mine on the inside of my arm like it was scratched into an old tree. Together forever. That’s what I thought, anyway.

Yesterday, she told me she doesn’t love me anymore. I know it’s to make leaving easier, but it hurt more than anything. I begged her to stab me right in the heart and put me out of my misery.

“No,” she said. “I can’t do it to you any more than you could to me.”

I laid next to her all night, as close as she’d let me, hoping it’s all been a bad dream. Now, she’s sitting on the end of the bed, staring at the door, holding herself the way I want to hold her. I have the urge to reach out, but she’s already too far away. There’s nothing else to do, so I ask her one last time. Why does she have to go?

“You know why,” she says. She raises a hand, maybe to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Instead, the tips of her fingers rest on her temple. When her hand starts to shake, she pulls it away. “My memory… it’s getting worse.”

It’s part of the reason we left, why we’re running from our families and the place we grew up. I ask again about our plans. New Orleans in the fall. Valentine’s Day in the desert. California by spring, where the ocean’s as blue as her eyes.

She lowers her head. “By Valentine’s Day, I won’t even remember your name.”

Everything is broken. This whole time, our plan seemed so simple that I forgot about the cost, or maybe I can’t bring myself to admit that it’s true.

She stands and faces away from me with her hands in her pockets. “I have to be on my way.”

I tell her I wish I could change things and make it so she could stay. She grabs the handle of the battered old suitcase on her way to the door. Before heading out, she stops and glances over her shoulder. “If only wishing for it made it real,” she says, then walks out into the cold morning air.

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Photo by Quino Al on Unsplash

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Filed Under: Story Tagged With: Flash Fiction, Short Fiction

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